by Ngaio Marsh
‘Upon whose protection and of that of Our Lady of Paysdoux,’ Teresa neatly interpolated, ‘I hurl myself.’
‘Do so.’
Teresa rose and made a convent-child’s bob. Raoul also asked to be excused. As they went together to the door, Alleyn said: ‘By the way, did you hear tomorrow’s weather forecast for the district?’
‘Yes, Monsieur. It is for thunderstorms. There are electrical disturbances.’
‘Indeed? How very apropos. Thank you, Raoul.’
‘Monsieur,’ said Raoul obligingly and withdrew his beloved into the inner room.
Alleyn rejoined his family. ‘Did you get much of that?’ he asked.
‘I’ve reached exhaustion point for French,’ Troy said. ‘I can’t even try to listen. And Ricky, as you see, is otherwise engaged.’
Ricky looked up from a brilliant picture of two knights engaged in single combat. ‘I bet there’ll be a wallop when they crash,’ he said. ‘Whang! I daresay I’d be able to read this pretty soon if we stayed here. I can read a bit, can’t I, Mummy?’
‘English, you can.’
‘I know. So don’t you dare say I could French, Daddy?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past you. Did you know what we were talking about, just now?’
‘I wasn’t listening much,’ Ricky lowered his voice to a polite whisper. ‘If it isn’t a rude question!’ he said, ‘when’s dinner?’
‘Soon. Pipe down, now. I want to talk to Mummy.’
‘OK. What are you going to do in Teresa’s bedroom tomorrow night, Daddy?’
‘I must say I should like to be associated with that inquiry,’ said Troy warmly.
‘I am changing there for a party.’
‘Who’s having a party?’ Ricky demanded.
‘A silver goat. I rather think he lights himself up.’
The door opened. Teresa came in with a tray.
IV
The dinner was superb, the filets mignons particularly, being inspired. When it was finished the Alleyns invited the Milanos to join them for fines and M. Milano produced a bottle of distinguished cognac. The atmosphere was gay and comme il faut. Presently the regular clientèle of the house began to come in: quiet middle-class people who greeted Madame Milano and took down their own table-napkins from hooks above their special places. A game of draughts was begun at the corner table. Troy, who had enjoyed herself enormously but was in a trance of fatigue, said she thought that they should go. Elaborate leave-takings were begun. Ricky, full of vegetables and rich gravy and sticky with grenadine, yawned happily and bestowed a smile of enchanting sweetness upon Madame Milano.
‘Mille remerciements, chère Madame,’ he said, stumbling a little over the long word, ‘de mon beau repas,’ and held out his hand. Madame made a complicated, motherly, bustling movement and ejaculated, ‘Ah, mon Dieu, quel amour d’enfant!’ There followed a great shaking of hands and interchange of compliments and the Alleyns took their departure on the crest of the wave.
Raoul drove them back to their hotel where, regrettably, a great fuss was again made over Ricky, who began to show infantile signs of vainglory and struck an attitude before M. Malaquin, the proprietor, shouting: ‘Kidnappers! Huh! Easy!’ and was applauded by the hall porter.
Alleyn said: ‘That’s more than enough from you, my friend,’ picked his son up and bore him into the lift. Troy followed wearily, saying: ‘Don’t be an ass, Ricky darling.’ When they got upstairs Ricky, who had been making tentative sounds of defiance, became quiet. When he was ready for bed he turned white and said he wouldn’t sleep in ‘that room.’ His parents exchanged the look that recognizes a dilemma. Troy muttered: ‘It is trying him a bit high, isn’t it?’ Alleyn locked the outer door of Ricky’s room and took him into the passage to show him that it couldn’t be opened. They returned leaving the door between the two rooms open. Ricky hung back. He had shadows under his eyes and looked exhausted and miserable.
‘Why can’t Daddy go in there?’ he asked angrily.
Alleyn thought for a moment and then said: ‘I can of course, and you can be with Mummy.’
‘Please,’ Ricky said. ‘Please.’
‘Well, I must say that’s a bit more civil. Look here, old boy, will you lend me your goat to keep me company? I want to see if it really does light itself up.’
‘Yes, of course he will,’ said Troy with an attempt at maternal prompting, ‘which,’ she thought, ‘I should find perfectly maddening if I were Ricky.’
Ricky said: ‘I want to be in here with Mummy and I want Goat to be here too. Please.’ he added.
‘All right,’ Alleyn said. ‘You won’t see him light himself up, of course, because Mummy will want her lamp on for some time, won’t you darling?’
‘For ages and ages,’ Troy agreed who desired nothing less.
Ricky said: ‘Please take him in there and tell me if he illumines.’ He fished his silver goat out of the bosom of his yellow shirt. Alleyn took it into the next room, put it on the bedside table, shut the door and turned out the lights.
He sat on the bed staring into the dark and thinking of the events of the long day and of Troy and Ricky and presently a familiar experience revisited him. He seemed to see himself for the first time, a stranger, a being divorced from experience, a chrysalis from which his spirit had escaped and which it now looked upon, he thought, with astonishment as a soul might look after death at its late housing. He thought: ‘I suppose Oberon imagines he’s got all this sort of thing taped. Raoul and Teresa too, after their fashion and belief. But I have never found an answer.’ The illusion, if it was an illusion and he was never certain about this, could be dismissed, but he held to it still and in a little while he found he was looking at a fluorescence, a glimmering of something, no more than a bat-light. It grew into a shape. It was Ricky’s little figurine faithfully illuminating itself in the dark. And Ricky’s voice still rather fretful, brought Alleyn back to himself.
‘Daddy!’ he was shouting, ‘is he doing it? DADdy!’
‘Yes,’ Alleyn called, rousing himself, ‘he’s doing it. Come and see. But shut the door after you or you’ll spoil it.’
There was a pause. A blade of light appeared and widened. He saw Ricky come in, a tiny figure in pyjamas. ‘Shut the door, Ricky,’ Alleyn repeated, ‘and wait a moment. If you come to me, you’ll see.’
The room was dark again.
‘If you’d go on talking, however,’ Ricky’s voice said, very small and polite, ‘I’d find you.’
Alleyn went on talking and Ricky found him. He stood between his father’s knees and watched the goat shining. ‘He honestly is silver,’ he said. ‘It’s all true.’ He leant back against his father, smelling of soap, and laid his relaxed hand on Alleyn’s. Alleyn lifted him on to his knee. ‘I’m fizzily and motionly zausted,’ Ricky said in a drawling voice.
‘What in the world does that mean?’
‘It’s what Mademoiselle says I am when I’m overtired.’ He yawned cosily. ‘I’ll look at Goat a bit more and then I daresay …’ His voice trailed into silence.
Alleyn could hear Troy moving about quietly in the next room. He waited until Ricky was breathing deeply and then put him to bed. The door opened and Troy stood there listening. Alleyn joined her. ‘He’s off,’ he said and watched while she went to see for herself. They left the door open.
‘I don’t know whether that was sound child-psychiatry or a barefaced cheat,’ Alleyn said, ‘but it’s settled his troubles. I don’t think he’ll be frightened of his bedroom now.’
‘Suppose he wakes and gets a panic, poor sweet.’
‘He won’t. He’ll see his precious goat and go to sleep again. What about you?’
‘I’m practically snoring on my feet.’
‘Fizzily and motionly zausted?’
‘Did he say that?’
‘Queer little bloke that he is, he did. Shall I stay with you, too, until you go to sleep?’
‘But – what about you?’
‘I�
��m going up to the factory. Dupont’s still there and Raoul’s hiring me his car.’
‘Rory, you can’t. You must be dead.’
‘Not a bit of it. The night’s young and it’ll be tactful to show up. Besides, I’ve got to make arrangements for tomorrow.’
‘I don’t know how you do it?’
‘Of course you don’t, my darling. You’re not a cop.’
She tried to protest but was so bemused with sleepiness that her voice trailed away as Ricky’s had done. By the time Alleyn had washed and found himself an overcoat, Troy, too, was in bed and fast asleep. He turned off the lights and slipped out of the room.
Left to itself the little silver goat glowed steadfastly through the night.
CHAPTER 10
Thunder in the Air
Alleyn left word at the office that he might be late coming in and said that unless he himself rang up no telephone calls were to be put through to Troy. Anybody who rang was to be asked to leave a message. It was nine o’clock.
The porter opened the doors and Alleyn ran down the steps to Raoul’s car. There was another car drawn up beside it, a long and stylish racing model with a G.B. plate. The driver leant out and said cautiously: ‘Hallo, sir.’
It was Robin Herrington.
‘Hallo,’ Alleyn said.
‘I’m on my way back, actually from Douceville. As a matter of fact, I was just coming in on the chance of having a word with you,’ Herrington said rapidly and in a muted voice. ‘I’m sorry you’re going out. I mean, I don’t suppose you could give me five minutes. Sorry not to get out but as a matter of fact, I sort of thought – It wouldn’t take long. Perhaps I could drive you to wherever you’re going and then I wouldn’t waste your time. Sort of.’
‘Thank you. I’ve got a car but I’ll give you five minutes with pleasure. Shall I join you?’
‘Frightfully nice of you sir. Yes, please do.’
‘Alleyn walked round and climbed in.
‘It won’t take five minutes,’ Herrington said nervously and was then silent.
‘How,’ Alleyn asked after waiting for some moments, ‘is Miss Truebody?’
Robin shuffled his feet. ‘Pretty bad,’ he said. ‘She was when I left. Pretty bad, actually.’
Alleyn waited again and was suddenly offered a drink. His companion opened a door and a miniature cocktail cabinet lit itself up.
‘No, thank you,’ Alleyn said. ‘What’s up?’
‘I will, if you don’t mind. A very small one.’ He gave himself a tot of neat brandy and swallowed half of it. ‘It’s about Ginny,’ he said.
‘Oh!’
‘As a matter of fact, I’m rather worried about her, which may sound a bit funny.’
‘Not very.’
‘Oh. Well, you see, she’s so terrifyingly young, Ginny. She’s only nineteen. And, as a matter of fact, I don’t think this is a madly appropriate setting for her.’ Alleyn was silent and after a further pause Robin went on,’ I don’t know if you’ve any idea what sort of background Ginny’s got. Her people were killed when she was a kid. In the blitz. She was trapped with them and hauled out somehow, which rocked her a good deal at the time and actually hasn’t exactly worn off even now. She’s rather been nobody’s baby. Her guardian’s a pretty odd old number. More interested in marmosets and miniatures than children, really. He’s her great-uncle.’
‘You don’t mean Mr Penderby Locke?’ Alleyn said, recognizing this unusual combination of hobbies.
‘Yes, that’s right. He’s quite famous on his own pitch, I understand, but he couldn’t have been less interested in Ginny.’
‘Then – Miss Taylor is related to Miss Grizel Locke who, I think, is Mr Penderby Locke’s sister, isn’t she?’
‘Is she? I don’t know. Yes, I think she must be,’ Robin said, shooting out the words quickly and hurrying on. ‘The thing is, Ginny just sort of grew up rather much under her own steam. She was sent to a French family and they weren’t much cop, I gather, and then she came back to England and somebody brought her out and she got in with a pretty vivid set and had a miserable love affair with a poor type of chap and felt life wasn’t as gay as it’s cracked up to be. And this affair bust up when they were staying with some of his chums at Cannes and Ginny felt what was the good of anything anyway, and I must say I know what that’s like.’
‘She arrived at this philosophy in Cannes?’
‘Yes. And she met Baradi and Oberon there. And I was there too, as it happened,’ said Robin with a change of voice. ‘So we were both asked to come on here. About a fortnight ago.’
‘I see. And then?’
‘Well, it’s a dimmish sort of thing to talk about one’s hosts, but I don’t think it was a particularly good thing, her coming. I mean it’s all right for oneself.’
‘Is it?’
‘Well, I don’t know. Just to do once and – and perhaps not do again. Quite amusing, really,’ said Robin miserably. ‘I mean, I’m not madly zealous about being a Child of the Sun. I just thought it might be fun. Of a sort. I mean, one knows one’s way about.’
‘One would, I should think, need to.’
‘Ginny doesn’t,’ Robin said.
‘No?’
‘She thinks she does, poor sweet, but actually she hasn’t a clue when it comes to – well, to this sort of party, you know.’
‘What sort of party?’
Robin pushed his glass back and shut the cupboard with a bang. ‘You saw, didn’t you, sir?’
‘I believe Dr Baradi is a very good surgeon. I only met the others for a few moments, you know.’
‘Yes, but – well, you know Annabella Wells, don’t you? She said so.’
‘We crossed the Atlantic in the same ship. There were some five hundred other passengers.’
‘I’d have thought she’d have shown up if there’d been five million,’ Robin said with feeling. Alleyn glanced at his watch.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not exactly pressing ahead with this,’ Robin said.
‘Don’t you think you’d better tell me what you want me to do?’
‘It sounds odd. MrsAllen will think it such cheek.’
‘Troy? How can it concern her?’
‘I – well, I was wondering if MrsAllen would ask Ginny to dinner tomorrow night.’
‘Why tomorrow night, particularly?’
Robin muttered: ‘There’s going to be a sort of party up there. I’d rather Ginny was out of it.’
‘Would she rather be out of it?’
‘Hell!’ Robin shouted. ‘She would if she were herself. My God, she would!’
‘And what exactly,’ Alleyn asked, ‘do you mean by that?’
Robin hit the wheel of his car with his clenched fist and said almost inaudibly: ‘He’s got hold of her. Oberon. She thinks he’s the bottom when he’s not – it’s just one of those bloody things.’
‘Well,’ Alleyn said, ‘we’d be delighted if Miss Taylor would dine with us but don’t you think she’ll find the invitation rather odd? After all, we’ve scarcely met her. She’ll probably refuse.’
‘I’d thought of that,’ Robin said eagerly. ‘I know. But I thought if I could get her to come for a run in the car, I’d suggest we called on MrsAllen. Ginny liked MrsAllen awfully. And you, sir, if I may say so. Ginny’s interested in art and all that and she was quite thrilled when she knew MrsAllen was Agatha Troy. So I thought if we might we could call about cocktail time and I’d say I’d got to go somewhere to see about something for the yacht or something and then I could ring up from somewhere and say I’d broken down.’
‘She would then take a taxi back to the Chèvre d’Argent.’
Robin gulped. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘But – well, I thought perhaps by that time Mrs Allen might have sort of talked to her and got her to see. Sort of.’
‘But why doesn’t Miss Locke talk to her? Surely, as her aunt – What’s the matter?’
Robin had made a violent ejaculation. He mumbled incoherently: ‘Not that sort. I
’ve told you. They didn’t care about Ginny.’
Alleyn was silent for a moment.
‘I know it’s a hell of a lot to ask,’ Robin said desperately.
‘I think it is,’ Alleyn said, ‘when you are so obviously leaving most of the facts out of your story.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You are asking us to behave in a difficult and extremely odd manner. You want us, in effect, to kidnap Miss Taylor. We have had,’ Alleyn said, ‘our bellyful of kidnapping this afternoon. I suppose you heard about Ricky.’
Robin made an inarticulate noise that sounded rather like a groan. ‘I know. Yes. We did hear. I’m awfully sorry. It must be terribly worrying.’
‘And how,’ Alleyn asked, ‘did you hear about it?’ and would have given a good deal to have had a clear view of Robin’s face.
‘Well, I – well, we rang up the hotel this afternoon.’
‘I thought you said you had been to Douceville all the afternoon.’
‘Hell!’
‘I think you must have known much earlier that Ricky was kidnapped, didn’t you?’
‘Look here, sir, I don’t know what to say.’
‘I’ll tell you. If you want me to help you with this child, Ginny, and I believe you do, you will answer, fully and truthfully, specific questions that I shall put to you. If you don’t want to answer, we’ll say goodnight and forget we had this conversation. But don’t lie. I shall know,’ Alleyn said mildly, ‘if you lie.’
Robin waited for a moment and then said: ‘Please go ahead.’
‘Right. What precisely do you expect to happen at this party?’
A car came down the square. Its headlights shone momentarily on Robin’s face. It looked very young and frightened, like the face of a sixth form boy in serious trouble with his tutor. The car turned and they were in the dark again.
Robin said: ‘It’s a regular thing. They have it on Thursday nights. It’s a sort of cult. They call it The Rites of the Children of the Sun in the Outer, and Oberon’s the sort of high priest. You have to swear not to talk about it. I’ve sworn. I can’t talk. But it ends pretty hectically. And tomorrow Ginny – I’ve heard them – Ginny’s cast for the leading part.’
